High
by comeonthensexy
Summary: Sherlock has some drug-induced conversations with inanimate objects, much to John Watson's chagrin. Rated T, just in case


AN: Oneshot, kinda weird. Done for the Anthropomorhism prompt by .com

* * *

><p>John Watson was out.<p>

Sherlock Holmes was bored.

Granted, he was bored quite a lot, but this kind of boredom, and for this length of time was when things got dangerous.

His last case was a month ago—this was almost his longest streak with nothing to do.

He'd tried everything; reading, experimenting in the kitchen, bothering the police whenever he could, even going to a bar and getting drunk once. John had had to play nursemaid the next day. Sherlock had proven himself to be a lightweight, and woke up with a wicked hangover. It clouded his ability to think, along with the pain, and he crossed that off his list of things to do as well.

There was only one thing he hadn't tried, and it also happened to be the one thing Holmes had sworn he would never do again. The man's last hit had been before Doctor Watson came into his life, and he had wanted it to stay that way, clean up his act, do something useful with himself.

Everything he needed was on the table in front of him.

_John would be upset with me._

Lying on the floor, he stared at the ceiling, trying to put the thoughts out of his head. _John wouldn't like it, John wouldn't approve, John would be angry._

Sherlock pulled himself partway up, leaning his cheek on the coffee table, staring longingly at his stash.

_John wouldn't… Since when do I care what someone else thinks?_

Scowling, he picked up the sterile needle and jabbed it into his elbow in a fit of stubbourn rebellion. Everything went wobbly as he felt the drug enter his system.

"John wouldn't like it you know!" spoke a voice from behind him.

The detective clumsily got to his feet, striking what he thought of as a defensive position.

"Who the **hell** are you? How did you get in my flat?" He yelled to the unknown intruder.

"You put me here you stupid man! I've been sitting up here for months now, since I've been –ahem—replaced."

Sherlock slowly turned in a circle, looking for the source of the voice. There was nothing, and nobody in the flat, he was sure of it. Nobody except—

Holmes walked to the fireplace, extending a finger to gingerly poke at the skull sitting there. "Are you… Are you _talking_ to me?"

"Obviously! Who else do you see in here? Does the pillow have a mouth? No, I didn't think so. Stop _poking_ me! Hey—hey! Put me down!"

The man carried his skull to the table, sitting on the couch across from him. With much difficulty, his movements slower and messier thanks to his hit, he arranged himself into his 'thinking pose'; sitting with his knees to his chest, fore-fingers resting over his lips.

"You're a skull."

"Very good, you know your bones."

"As a matter of fact, I do. Thanks." Sherlock made a face at the thing. "You're a human female—"

"Wrong!"

The detective made a noise of disbelief. "I'm… I'm sorry?"

"I said, WRONG. God, Sherlock you can be so goddamned sexist! Just because I'm small. Especially when your _John—_"

"Leave my John out of this!" He yelled at the skull, getting nose-to…nose-hollow, with the skull.

The skull smirked. "YOUR John?"

"Shut up! He's my—colleague!"

"Right-o, Sherly. You guys study an awful lot of anatomy together, don't you?"

"We do NOT! He's like…a…a BROTHER to me!"

"Incest is win-cest."

"YOU ARE A BLOODY NUISANCE!"

"A nuisance? Is that the best you can do Sherly?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he grabbed the top of the skull. "ANDERSON!" He yelled as he chucked it as hard as he could into the kitchen.

"Oh, that hurt!" It's voice was muffled, laying on it's face on the kitchen floor. "I am genuinely insulted!"

Holmes pushed up one sleeve, a half-crazed look on his face as he prepared to go to the kitchen and END the damn thing, when another, more familiar, but just as annoying voice floated up the stairs.

"Are you alright up there?" Mycroft appeared in the doorway, swinging his umbrella. Noticing the needle, still on the table, he shook his head. "What _would_ Mummy say, Sherlock?"

The detective ignored him—he was too busy staring at the umbrella as it sang it's rendition of Eurythmic's _Here Comes The Rain Again. _

Mycroft sighed, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder and guiding him to the couch. Sitting in the chair across from him, he rested the umbrella against the arm and began to speak.

"John is out tonight, and I decided to take advantage of the fact that you were alone. I must say, I was rather worried that you would revert to something like this eventually…"

He droned on, but Sherlock was zeroed in on the umbrella. "I'm _SINGin_' in the rain!" it sung. In the background, he could still here the skull yelling profanities at him from the kitchen. The detective tried shutting them out. His head was beginning to hurt, through the numbness of the drugs.

"Sherlock? Sherlock. You aren't listening to a word I'm saying. I know you're _high, _but you could at least pretend to pay attention! Now then…"

The younger Holmes leaned on the table, his head in his hands as he tried to block out the chaos around him.

"GET IN HERE YOU GIT!" the skull screamed from the kitchen.

"Don't you bring around a cloud to rain on MYYYYYYYYYY PARADE!" The umbrella belted loudly.

His head pounded.

Another voice drifted up the stairs. "Sherlock?"

John walked into the flat. "Sherlock, are you alright? Mycroft, what are you…"

Sherlock tried to block his voice out as he talked worriedly to the other Holmes. He raised his eyes slightly.

"Sherlock…" John's jumper crooned. "We don't like you anymore, Sherlock. You've disappointed us. We're going to leave you…"

The detective cried out, jumping up. He gasped in pain; his head felt like it would split in two. Holmes collapsed to the floor.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John was upon him immediately. "It's going to be okay. Listen to me! You're going to…"

He was drowned out by the other voices in the room.

"SHERLOCK MOTHERFUCKING HOLMES, GET YOUR ASS IN HERE."

"IT'S RAININ' MEN! HALLELUJIAH, IT'S RAININ' MEN!"

"Sherlock Holmes… He hates you now, Sherlock, he hates you…"

He was aware of John screaming at Mycroft to call an ambulance. He vaguely felt the doctor's warm hands on his face, taking his hand. "Stay with me, Sherlock, you'll be fine."

The green jumper competed with it's owner. "Go, Sherlock, go. He doesn't want you… Never has…"

"Sherlock Holmes! You stay with me!" John was two inches away from the detective's face. He blocked out all other lines of sight.

"John…" He managed to whisper.

Everything went black.

Sherlock awoke to a slow, steady beep.

His head still hurt like mad, but there were no more screams, or whispers.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. John was pacing around the small hospital room. The beeping was the detective's heart monitor. He reached up, finding a tube in his nose. Disgusted with himself, he removed it, breathing in the harsh-smelling hospital air.

"John?"

The doctor looked over, and for a moment, Holmes didn't know if he should risk the dark look he was getting, or run. He opted for the first; his head was pounding. Surprisingly, neither option was needed. Watson nearly sprinted across the room, throwing his arms around Sherlock the best he could with the bed in the way. He blinked in surprise, putting his long, lanky arms around John as well.

"You are such an idiot." The small man mumbled into his friend's dark curls.

The doctor pulled back enough to see his face, keeping his hands on the detective's shoulders.

"You nearly _killed _yourself with that drug overdose. You _idiot._"

"You keep calling me that." Sherlock looked up from his reclined position, being the shorter man for once.

"That's because you _are._ You're a lot of things, but I never took you for a junkie."

"I-I'm sorry, John. I'll… I'll throw out everything that's left."

"Already done. I went home to change out of that jumper, last night."

"Never wear that thing again—wait, last _night_? How long have I been asleep?"

"Almost 48 hours. Why d'you think I was so worried? You put yourself into a drug-induced coma! You IDIO—"

Sherlock pulled John down by his lab coat, kissing him before he had time to think. The doctor was obviously surprised, but relaxed after a moment, kissing him back. Watson reached up to tangle his hand in that soft, black hair. He pulled away for a fraction of a second, just long enough to whisper, "_You idiot_…"

He was silenced with another kiss.


End file.
